


Interesting

by Anonymous



Category: Oz - L. Frank Baum, The Wizard of Oz & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dialogue Heavy, Holding Hands, Implied Identity Crisis, M/M, Stargazing, cowardly lion is Technically there, john r. neil - ish design for tin-man cuz i think its cool, the wizard is mentioned also
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:01:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27188318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: It was hard to describe, but the Scarecrow couldn’t take his painted eyes off the Tin Woodman. He was just so intricate, so sturdy, so kind, that the Scarecrow longed to get a closer look.
Relationships: Scarecrow/Tin Woodman
Comments: 7
Kudos: 26
Collections: Anonymous





	Interesting

Despite what the Scarecrow claimed, he often did have thoughts.

They were not anything philosophical or ground-breaking, and perhaps they were not the smartest of ideas, but they were thoughts nonetheless. The stuffed man simply assumed he didn’t think at all because he didn’t _recognize_ when he thought. All he knew is that he did not have brains, which did not make him a good man. 

Regardless, there seemed to be one thought on the Scarecrow’s mind as of late: their new friend sure was _something_.

Walking alongside Dorothy and the Scarecrow was a man made entirely of tin. He moved with an air of graciousness, clanking and creaking as he walked, and on his shoulder rested a rusty axe. The two found him motionless in the middle of the forest; he told his tale with a gentle, silvery voice, and now he was on the journey to the Emerald City in want of a heart.

It was a few hours ago since they met, but the Scarecrow still turned to see how the man’s torso had a dull gleam in the sun. He looked to see how, despite being rescued from a year’s worth of stillness, the man’s iron joints moved smoothly. He took note of how sturdy the man of tin was, as the Scarecrow himself was awkward when he walked.

It was hard to describe, but the Scarecrow couldn’t take his painted eyes off the Tin Woodman. 

It was a rather quiet journey now, as all that could have been talked about was said. They all discussed their wishes from the Wizard, which led to the Woodman and the Scarecrow discussing whether a heart or a brain was a more worthy desire. Dorothy even told a tale of her life back in Kansas. But now, the party walked along in content silence; Dorothy walked between them with Toto at her heels.

Sometimes, the Tin-Man—as Dorothy started to call him—looked up at the sky and swivelled his head back and forth on its hinges, so aware and pleased that he could move again. The Scarecrow observed this and wondered how he, of such intricacy, could have ever been a normal Munchkin man. Not only was he handsome, but an air of softness followed him where he went. To think that his voice and sweet demeanor once belonged to a man made of flesh was strange to the Scarecrow.

The Tin Woodman looked over to him.

The Scarecrow glanced away immediately, embarrassed, and fixed his gaze on the yellow brick before him. He wobbled a little bit, but regained his clumsy footing. 

Then he took one step before smacking his face right into a tree branch and falling to the ground.

“Scarecrow!” 

Dorothy rushed over to the side of the stuffed man, who was patting his head back into shape.

“It’s alright, Dorothy, I’m fine. I can’t feel anything after all.” 

As he was pulled to his feet, the Scarecrow was able to get a better look of his surroundings. Ahead, the branches of the trees grew thicker and thicker until he could barely see the road of yellow brick.

“It seems at this rate, we won’t be able to travel any further,” he remarked.

“Mhmm,” Dorothy nodded, turning to face the trees before them.

“Ah, well, don’t worry friends!” The Tin Woodman smiled, already brandishing his axe. “I’ll simply go up ahead and cut a clean path for us.” 

“Good idea!” She exclaimed. 

The party watched as the Woodman stepped forward to cut and hack away the branches. He got to work, chopping them down with swift, experienced movement. The sound of rustling leaves and sharp smacks filled the forest. Each swing was as smooth as the last, his work never waning. The Scarecrow watched keenly as the Woodman adventured a bit further down the road.

“He’s quite interesting, ain’t he?” Dorothy said.

The Scarecrow only nodded. _He was interesting._

Not before long, the Woodman was back. He swung his axe back over his shoulder and without a hastened breath, said, “Let us continue, then?”

“That was amazing! Thank you!” The young girl beamed.

“Great work,” the Scarecrow finally said, astonished.

The Tin Woodman paused briefly before his tin jaw moved upwards— his own way of smiling.

“Thank you... Both of you are too kind,” he murmured, resuming his place next to Dorothy.

And so they continued onward. The Scarecrow still glanced at the man, but soon their party had another welcomed member, and the Scarecrow was able to tear his gaze away from the man and keep his non-existent mind in check. 

During the nights though, the Scarecrow and the Tin-Man indulged in each other’s company. They talked low, as to not wake their sleeping friends. Their quiet discussions were of everything— the future, the past, the present, themselves— but mainly, it was about their wishes from the Wizard. They bantered on about why their want was better than the other's, although the Scarecrow remarked numerous times that he couldn’t _possibly_ defend his argument well as he didn’t have a brain to think with. But in the end, they let one another keep their opinions and never made a true effort to change the other’s mind. Such as how the Woodman was made of tin and the Scarecrow was made of straw, each man could appreciate the other for their differences. 

But one night they did not get into a philosophical discussion or anything of the sort.

The Tin Woodman glimmered in the warm light of the fire. Scarecrow could see this shine from where he sat, a ways from the flame in fear of catching ablaze. Dorothy was already asleep, and so was Toto, for this was late into the night, and they rested in the soft grass of the Munchkin County. The party was close to the Emerald City, only approximately two days away from reaching there. 

The Tin Woodman spoke to the Cowardly Lion, who was drifting asleep. The Scarecrow couldn’t hear what he had said, but Lion nodded and the Woodman got up and sat next to the stuffed man. “Hello,” the Tin-Man murmured.

“Hey.”

There was something about the small action that made the Scarecrow grin, and not before long the two started to rest in comfortable silence. 

The Scarecrow turned his head upwards and started to count the stars. 

He soon realised, the night after he was created, that he would need lots of patience, as he could not sleep. Of course, he didn’t even know what patience was at the time. All he knew is that he was going to have to accept the long, lonely hours.

On the first night that they spent together, the Woodman remarked that he always counted the stars at night when he could. He had been living of tin for two years, not including his year alone and rusted, and in that time he became mighty patient and found many ways to spend the nights. His favourite way by far was to count the stars. It was hard to do that when he rusted in the forest, and now that he could move freely again, he spent each night looking up and counting. The Scarecrow would join him, and it was with the Woodman that the Scarecrow learned how to count. 

The stars were shining bright tonight, peppering the dark blanket of sky above them. 

And so the hours passed, with the Scarecrow counting as far as he could, head turned up to the sky, next to the Tin Woodman. 

The Scarecrow turned his gaze to the man next to him. It was hard to see in the dark, but the distant light from the fire illuminated the features of the Tin Woodman’s face— his warm, square eyes, his long nose, and his jaw, fastened to his head with small bolts. The Scarecrow wondered what Tin-Man used to look like back when he was a human. Not nearly as beautiful or wonderful as the current man in front of him, the other thought.

Tin eyes blinked owlishly. “Scarecrow?”

The Scarecrow glanced down at the dark grass, embarrassed he had been caught staring once more.

“Are you okay?” The Woodman murmured.

“Hm?” The Scarecrow’s baritone voice cut through the night, before he whispered, “Oh, yes. I’m fine, sorry.”

The Woodman was silent for a moment. “You’ve been doing that all week.” Though the Woodman’s rescue had been days ago, he still had a gentle sadness in his voice when he spoke.

“Doing what?”

“Looking at me,” he replied.

The Scarecrow continued to stare at the grass.

“I don’t mind it,” the Tin-Man added, “but you seem distracted most days.” 

The Scarecrow fidgeted with his flimsy hands before mumbling, “I don’t mean to.” 

“It’s okay, I truly don’t mind it,” The Woodman smiled.

The next few moments were spent in awkward silence. The Scarecrow heard the chirping of the crickets in a nearby bush, and focused on that instead of the Tin Woodman. 

Without warning, before the two were about to slip into comfortable silence again, the urge to speak up overcame the Scarecrow.

“Could I see your hand?”

The Woodman turned back to him with a creak. 

“What was that?” He murmured.

The Scarecrow was silent for a moment. “I would like to see your hand,” he repeated.

With a slight hesitation, the Woodman held out his right hand and the Scarecrow took it in his own cloth ones. He leaned in closer. 

Even in the dark of the night, he could tell it was intricately crafted. Five slender digits, almost boney in shape, soldered onto a palm with bolts. Scarecrow noticed how the Woodman’s hands were so complex yet simple—they were able to grasp an axe yet be very mobile. Himself, on the other hand, had difficulty lifting up a precise finger, for his hand had no joints.

The Woodman looked over to the fire to make sure their talk wasn’t waking anyone.

“Might I ask why?” 

The Scarecrow stopped for a second to recall the word Dorothy said a few days ago.

“... It’s because I find you interesting,” he said softly.

The Woodman paused, but then covered his smiling jaw with his free hand and shyly said, “Oh... you flatter me so...” 

The Scarecrow considered the word. “Flatter?”

The other nodded, before realising what the stuffed one meant. 

“Well, you... It’s nice that you compliment me,” the Woodman whispered, unsure of how to describe it.

Scarecrow nodded in response, still looking at the tin hand, but soon afterward sheepishly mumbled, “What’s a compliment?”

The Tin-Man smiled fondly. “It’s a nice thing to say about someone. For instance,” he slightly shifted to face the other, “Scarecrow, I think that you’re delightful, and you’re pretty fascinating, too.”

The Scarecrow slowly nodded. “Fascinating...”

“It means interesting,” the Tin Woodman returned.

The wheels in the Scarecrow’s non-existent brain turned, and he exclaimed, “Oh!” He turned away from the Woodman, bashfully. “Shucks... You think _I’m_ interesting?”

“Why, of course! You’re the only person made of straw I know. I’ve never seen anyone like you.” The Woodman paused, “did you just... tell a corn pun?”

The Scarecrow held his hands up in defense before shrugging, a playful smile creased his face. “Maybe.”

The Tin Woodman chuckled at this, but then shook his head. He lent his hand to the Scarecrow once more, who took the hand with an appreciative slowness and continued inspecting it with great interest.

The Scarecrow ran his hand over a single digit, outlining the bumps of each joint. This was strange to do, as both the Scarecrow and the Woodman couldn’t feel touch at all, but knowing the movement was made still comforted each material man. 

“I’ve never been called interesting...” The Scarecrow murmured to himself. 

The Tin-Man said this despite his awkward, clumsy flaws and his still, painted face. He said this despite his uneven blue eyes and the fact that he was neither a good scarecrow nor a good man. If it were the Woodman who held the Scarecrow’s hand, would he be softly kneading the glove, interested in how his straw sounded when he did so? The Scarecrow smiled fondly at the idea while he continued to outline each finger, and slowly, contentedly, he intertwined his hand in the Woodman’s. The cloth Scarecrow could not have been more different than the sturdy metal of the Tin Woodman, but it felt more than natural to fit one material hand in the other.

The Woodman responded by carefully locking his hand with the other’s, turning away from the Scarecrow’s gaze as he did so. 

Although both men could not feel a single thing, this action was something new, something that crossed a threshold, and neither one knew what to do or say next.

“Scarecrow, I...”

The Woodman looked back at the other’s painted eyes. “I want to confide in you.”

The Scarecrow, despite not understanding anything he had said, noticed his serious tone and nodded. “I’m all ears.”

“It’s just that...”

There was a brief silence. The Woodman looked down at their interlocked hands, then continued. “Do you remember how I was human before?”

The other nodded once again, not wanting to interrupt him.

“Well, I had a name when I was human.”

The Scarecrow didn’t exactly catch on, but he remarked, “what was it?” to show he was listening.

“It was Nick Chopper.”

Before he could say anything, the Tin-Man added, “I’m not sure if I want to be referred to that anymore.”

If the stuffed man could have blinked, he would have done so now. “Why not?” He asked innocently.

“It’s just... It’s something I’ve been looming over since I became this way.” This lament was followed with a pat of his tin leg. “Without a heart and all that.”

The Scarecrow glanced away, not too sure about anything and much too embarrassed to ask what those words meant.

“I don’t want to get rid of it entirely, but.. I’m not sure if I’m ready to be called Nick again.”

This, the Scarecrow understood, and asked, “You have time to be ready, don’t you? Even if you don’t wish to be Nick Chopper now, there could be a time you want to again.” 

There was a long period of contemplation. The Woodman moved his thumb, stroking the glove of the Scarecrow ever so faintly.

He then murmured, “you’re right. I _do_ have the time to think it over.”

Looking into the eyes of the Woodman, the fire cast a golden gleam on his body that made the moment seem so much more intimate.

“That was very wise, Scarecrow.”

“It’s nothing," he smiled. "I don’t have a brain after all."

The Scarecrow glanced up at the sky, noticing how the darkness was a shade lighter than it was before. 

“And even though you don’t want to be called it, I think Nick Chopper is a lovely name.”

The Tin Woodman responded by grasping tighter at the other’s hand, staring lovingly at the sky.

The crickets and the dying fire were the only sounds heard. The two sat side by side, holding the other’s hand silently, waiting for the rising sun so they could continue their journey. It seemed like the Woodman was in the same situation as the Scarecrow— although they did not acknowledge it, the Scarecrow often thought of the Tin Woodman, despite not having a brain, and the Woodman felt deeply for the Scarecrow, despite not having a heart. Despite this, their mutual dismissal was okay for now. Perhaps when they both receive what they want from the Wizard, and perhaps when the Woodman goes by Nick Chopper, they could finally accept these feelings of theirs.

But that was for another day.

**Author's Note:**

> fellas is it gay to longingly stare at your homies in fascination ...
> 
> anyway.. i hope you liked it!! there’s not a lot of fic written about these two .. which kinda surprised me ngl  
> also this was HELLA gay & i had so much fun writing it! might even write something like this again :0  
> also when are we gonna get an oz adaptation where theyre actually Together huh…


End file.
